


heaven’s grief brings hell’s rain

by milkovichh



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Assassins, Bipolar Disorder, Blood, Death, Eventual Romance, Guns, Hitmen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slurs, Swearing, Violence, fun stuff, mafia, non-major character death, updating as regularly as possible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-04 15:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10993962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkovichh/pseuds/milkovichh
Summary: Dark nights reflect bright eyes, bringing out the horrors in them and forcing forward any emotion that could be hidden behind the swirling irises. Life is boring. That is, until something can make you feel this alive.





	1. i thought of angels choking on their halos

Grey clouds crossed over the pale sky, dark and brooding and promising a storm. Skyscrapers traced the bottom of the clouds, and birds were flying to their nests to escape the rain before it even hit, people busied the streets with clacking heels and buzzes of phone calls and chatter of friends. It was just a typical morning, the clock  reading half past eight, as many people rushed to reach work by nine.

  Sat on a balcony with his feet resting on the rails and cigarette handing between the index and middle finger of his right hand was an assassin. That was the simplest way to put it — for he could not just be introduced as yet another ‘man’ or ‘boy’, despite his younger age, since his job defined him to everyone else. He was a hired killer, worked for good money, too. Unlike many assassins, as few as there were just hanging about, he had the look of someone that did this for work. Jet black hair slicked back, pale skin that dirtied easily and had been coated in blood many times, scarred knuckles bearing a threatening statement of ‘FUCK U-UP’, sharp features and piercing blue eyes.

  By no means was Mickey Milkovich a well-known assassin. The thing about Mickey was that he used to do crime for his own personal gain — made his own money for his own benefit and nobody elses. He began small. Beat up stupid pricks at school who had done this or that to his sister, Mandy, and then went and did stuff for people who owned small shops and had people bothering them. Eventually, he found himself in bigger, definitely more dangerous business. He had large company businessmen hiring him to kill off someone equally as big and successful for a large wad of money at the highest paying jobs, or normal people wanting to kill of their enemies for this or that for smaller prices, because he had been caught for many things in his younger days (drug deals, bar fights, punching police officers, ect.) yet had not once been caught for murder; well, assassination. He liked to think there was a difference.

  Another thing about Mickey was that he got hired when someone wanted the job _done_ with no fail or chance of mistake. In this business, mistakes went far.

  This was why he sat up on this balcony, smoking while he leaned back on his chair and let the chilly morning go on in the streets beneath him, grouchy from the fact that he had been woken early. Aside from his obviously thrilling and highly illegal career choice, Mickey lead a fairly normal life. He lived in a small apartment with his sister, who worked alongside him yet separately in the assassin business, and sometimes studied when he got the chance despite having left education when he was thirteen, smoked and had a couple of one night stands. It may not have been the high life, but it was a hell of a lot better than an abusive father in the Southside of Chicago. Yes, he and Mandy earned a lot of money together — yet they felt no need to live in a big mansion and buy expensive, branded things or flaunt that fact. They paid for their moderate apartment, nicer clothes than ripped childhood hand-me-downs, food on the table every night, heating and water and internet. Simple, but they could provide and that’s all that mattered. 

  Interrupting his almost-nap came the annoying ringtone and vibrating of the shitty flip-phone Mickey had in his pocket. That was why he was awake at this time in the morning — Mandy had woken him before her part-time job at the nearest Starbucks (because, apparently, they had reached the point of mainstream coffee shops in their lives) which she did need since while they earned good money after an assassination, it wasn’t a regular, full-time gig. They saved a lot of the assassination money in the bank, and used it in small, needed amounts, yet mainly used the money they got from their other job. Besides, having a job beat sitting at home all the time. Anyway, she woke him saying that he was expecting a phone call that day for a _massive_ job. Massive as in, ‘we could buy fucking _mansions_ as if they were hotel rooms, Mick!’ and she was not over-exaggerating when it came to this business.

  So that morning, he had gotten up and pulled on some casual clothes and went outside to smoke and maybe sleep a little more. An echo of _finally_ went into Mickey’s mind as he accepted the call from the private number.

  “Hello? Is this Milkovich?”

  “Depends who’s askin’.”

  “Jones. That’s all you need to know until we can meet in person.”

  Mickey snorted. “Jones. A’ight. What can I do for you?”

  “I, um, need a job done. I need you to kill someone for me.”

  “S’what I do, you’re gonna have to be a little fuckin’ more specific, Jones.”

  “Like I mentioned, Mr. Milkovich, details must wait until we can meet in person. It’s an important job, one you may not usually encounter.”

  Dropping his legs from the railing of the balcony, Mickey leaned forward in his chair, blowing out smoke from his cigarette as he rolled his eyes. “What’s in it for me?”

  “A lot of money. Millions, if you can do this right.”

  “’Course I can do it right. I’m down.”

  A sigh sounded in the phone. It sounded relieved, as if Mickey may have put up more of a fight against working for millions of dollars. He sounded so official, almost nervous, and Mickey figured that this may have been the first illegal thing he’d ever done. Mickey wasn’t against working for smaller jobs, the smallest going for about ten thousand dollars, but big money was very appealing, as it would be for anyone.

  “Perfect. Can we meet sometime this week? I’ll call you back with a time and place, and we can discuss. I’d like if you could drop your phone in the sewer after this, too.”

  “Whatever. Hit me back when we can sort out details, Jones.”

  “Thank you.”

  The line went dead.

 

A rotten stench reeked the alleyway, darkened by the shadows casted by the two high buildings and the slow-falling night. The walls were deep red brick and were cracked in places, mould and grime building in the corners and cracks of the old work, the floor concrete with scattered stones and large dumpsters shoved into the back of the deadend. Pulling his coat tighter around him, Mickey stalked down this alleyway, which was a rather dumb place to meet, by the way, though he had little room to argue when millions of dollars were being offered to him. His feet clicked against the stone, breath coming out in a whisp of white cloud, face shadowed by his hood. At the end of the alley stood a tall male figure, wearing a long, buttoned trench coat that seemed tailored just for him. He seemed to be shaking from the cold, or else the shorter being approaching him — who was carrying a weapon on him, _because why the fuck wouldn’t he be_? 

  “Jones,” stated the Milkovich as he became in speaking, albeit hushed speaking, distance to the man. The man nodded, greeting him back with his own surname. “This really where you wanna enclose details for this?”

  The man’s eyes flashed with something between worried and guiltful, as he cast them around the darkening cold alleyway. Slowly, he nodded. “I couldn’t risk inviting you straight to my office.” He straightened up, regaining some confidence he seemed to have lost while looking at Mickey. “I must apologise for the lack of professionalism I may appear to have.”

  “I don’t care. Alleyway, fancy office, fuckin’ strip club for the amount of shits I give. Same job.”

  The man considered before nodding. “My name is A. Jones. I work as the head boss of a large office company. Regardless, someone is trying to kill me.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Mickey folded his arms. This certainly was not something he expected, and the lack of detail definitely did not highlight a good job or convincing argument as to why he should do this. “So what?”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jones seemed to try to piece together something that would make sense to Mickey and convince him to take up this job. “ _So_ , I need you to kill him for me. He is a member of the Mafia, and got sent to kill me for a deal I didn’t keep my side of. A hitman, working for a lot of money, too, and a damn good one.”

  “If you’re bein’ killed for not keeping a deal, how do I know you ain’t gonna wait ’til it’s done and then not pay me?”

  The man seemed to expect that question. “You’re an assassin. I’d be a fool to not pay you for a hired job. If you still are not convinced, I figure this may sway you,” he reached into his coat and pulled out a large roll of money, held together with an elastic band. Handing it to Mickey, he raised an eyebrow, as if asking if it truly _was_  enough to sway him. The brunet flicked through the notes, seeing a lot of bigger numbers and being pleased with that. It wasn’t part of his job to ask _why_  he had to kill someone, just to do it. Of course, there lay another problem.

  “You got any dirt on the hitman?”

  Blinking, as if he was waiting for an answer on the money, the man stumbled for a second before reaching into his coat again and pulling out an envelope, to which Mickey almost groaned because this wasn’t the olden days. However, another part of his job was to not complain, so he took the envelope with a nod and stuffed the money in his pocket. “Tell me how you want him dead. A place and time, if it means that fuckin’ much to you. And what kinda money I get from it.”

  “I don’t care. I just need him gone, as soon as possible. If you can do this with no witnesses and can somehow manage to get the Mafia off my back, too, I’m thinking sixteen-to-eighteen million?”

  Mickey rubbed his hand over his face, foot tapping with a mind of it’s own. Eighteen million dollars was a _lot_  of money. He had to consider his options, though. Taking on a professional hitman from the Mafia would be a challenge, since they practically had the same job, the hitman having more of a contract and connection than Mickey, and no doubt he would be skilled if he was sent after the owner of a large business. Mickey knew in a gig like this, you could not afford to make mistakes. Even smaller, sloppy, rookie mistakes could end with a lot of people prisoned, and a lot more put at danger. If the challenge of a trained man wasn’t enough, he could potentially have to fight off the Mafia — and who knew how big that family was? How many connections they had. How easily they could take out Mickey, with the trained hitmen they had. Even if he somehow managed to get rid of the soldiers, the bigger and more important members could get him killed at the click of their fingers. Could go for Mandy. 

  Mandy was the most important thing. Maybe Mickey should have thought about her before he got them both in this business, but he had already got them both away from Terry, and could not bare to land Mandy in another situation like the ones he had put her through. She may have been strong, but Mickey would throw his life on the line and so much more before he let anyone harm his little sister. They may not have needed this money painfully, but Mickey knew that their bank was slowly going down in numbers and they hadn’t had a job like this in a while. It would help them out for a long time, and perhaps he could even travel with Mandy, to live out one her dreams, since she had told him once: “ _I don’t wanna be stuck here forever! Killing people for money, then serving others a god damn coffee! I want to see more of the world, Mick_.”

  Realising the man before him was waiting patiently, a lot of money on the line, Mickey cleared his throat. “Bump it to twenty and I’m in. I’ll keep everyone away from you.”

  The man hissed through his teeth, eyes closing as if it pained him to think about paying so much. Truthfully, Mickey could hardly blame him. Twenty million was so much money. Then again, fighting off members off the Mafia put more than one life at stake and he’d say it was pretty fuckin’ worth it, since he had never failed a job before and didn’t intend to start. “Deal. Don’t let me down, Milkovich.”

  Their hands shook between them, sealing it. Mickey nodded with a glint behind his ocean eyes and a smile tugging at his lips, turning and walking back down the alley, his plan to return home and study over his hitman target, Jones’ number written in ink across the top of the envelope.

 

The door shut with a slight bang behind Mickey. He yawned as he shrugged off his jacket and walked to the kitchen to make himself some coffee, intent on staying up at least a few more hours for this. He couldn’t process quick enough the amount of money he could earn — it was an unbelievable amount. It was still seemingly just an illusion in his head, as if he thought he couldn’t actually do this, and would probably not believe until long after he had the money in his hands. 

  “Where’ve you been? Been waiting for you, shithead,” came the voice of his sister from the couch, a FRIENDS rerun playing on their TV. Of course she would wait: it was their thing. They always waited for one another, in fear the other had gotten in trouble. This was more down to the Southside running through their blood, the constant wonder of if Mandy would be taken and perved on as she walked back from the Kash & Grab or Mickey would be shot through the chest for doing something dumb like smart-mouthing the wrong person. They had always waited up for the other to come, since they were little kids. 

  “Got that job you told me about. Fuckin’ big money, Mands.”

  “Yeah? What’s he offerin’?”

  “Twenty mil.”

  “ _Jesus_ , Mickey!”

  The older sibling shrugged, sipping at the scalding hot coffee before wandering toward her and shoving a cup to her, too. He threw the envelope down onto the table, knowing she wouldn’t pry into the job: even if she did, they were flesh and blood, she’d never take what wasn’t hers, much less rat him out. Southside rules still flowed through their veins as if they still lived on those dangerous, shitty streets of Chicago. _No_ , Mickey quickly shook off the thought, _they had gotten out._ Itwas a rare occurance for someone born and raised to actually get out of that shitty place and somewhere better, much less the runts of the Milkovich children, but Mickey and Mandy had proved that they were so much more than the faggot son and slut daughter of Terry Milkovich. They were _something_ now, had jobs and built real reputations without returning home to the asshole they called their single parent. As kids, Mickey knew that Mandy had wanted their mom back, because Terry was a drunk, deluded nightmare that haunted her when he mistook her for their mom, though pipedreams and dumb ambitions were always put to sleep quickly on the Southside. Now, you could dare to say they were _free_.

Later that night, Mickey sat on the couch, leaning forward over the coffee table long after Mandy had resided to bed, a comedy on the TV and lamp in the corner. He peeled back the top of the envelope, slipping out the **Private & Confidential **papers and beginning to read about the little information Jones had on the hitman.

  _Ian Gallagher._


	2. get them drunk on rose water

As the sun rose in the west, birds singing from their branches to the slowly-rising light, red hair highlighted against pale skin. Grumbling this or that, green eyes fluttered, tired and threatening to close once more, as the owner of said pale skin, red hair and green eyes awoke. It seemed he had just crashed the night before — hadn’t closed the curtains or pulled the duvet over him, or even changed into something more comfortable for that matter. His arms were tucked under his head oppose to using the actual pillow, legs dangling off of his bed, and a painful buzz in his head, aching and pounding.

  Quite frankly, Ian Gallagher had no idea what he had gotten up to the night before. All he could remember was the falling sun as his brother’s face was bright, holding a small stack of money and saying they could get so wasted. The redhead could swear that Lip, that being his idiot genius of an older brother, still missed his college days. He still wanted to have parties and fuck girls in beds that weren’t his or her’s, smoke pot and have a good time in that Gallagher style. Ian, on the other hand, had grown up a little bit, which he never thought he’d be able to say in comparison to Lip, and put his illness in front of being shit-faced every night.

  
  Sometimes, it absolutely sucked; on his meds, he could hardly drink anything without getting wasted in seconds, making him feel like a cheap date, and dancing around, grinding on people he didn’t know, just ... wasn’t something he did in his spare time when he literally did that for a living. Sure, working at a gay club was good — he got paid for simply dancing to a beat, having people boost his ego by jeering at him and throwing up their money just because his ass looked good in shorts, it was a perfect job — and he enjoyed it to an extent but doing the same thing every night, regardless of where or with who, got boring and Ian hated boring.

  Whether down to his bipolar or not, Ian had always been the kid who wanted more than he could have. He had big dreams, wanted to join Westpoint, even though he was just a gay ROTC recruit in the Southside, and was the Gallagher brother that nobody could really keep up with in a way that wasn’t quite as noticable as Carl. Even as a younger child with his curly red locks and skin coated head-to-toe in freckles, he had wanted more out of life than what he saw in Frank and Monica. While they looked like they were having fun, he knew there was more for him than drugs and the south of Chicago. Other times, his need for upbeat things and keeping people on their toes was just a child’s general dream, something many kids had, but his manic episodes really brought out that side of him. That side he could not control, since it was coded into him to act and be the way his mind tricked him into being, and it made him do over-the-top stupid things. For example, signing up for the career of flaunting his body for old closeted men to gawk at.

  This leads up to why, exactly, Ian Gallagher, perfect little army boy, younger brother of genius Lip and older brother of psychotic Carl, was in the Mafia. 

  Honestly, there was no true, clear answer to that. Ian was once in the army, albeit illegally, and was almost arrested for stealing a helicopter — in his defence, he was manic and didn’t succeed in his attempt. Due to this, Ian’s army days were short-lived, thank god, and the rest was a blur. Lip worked as the underboss for their Mafia family (the brains, the ‘second boss’, the shot-caller when the boss wasn’t needed), and Ian, while a very skilled and efficient hitman, was a low rank. Soldier. The puppets of the higher ranks, and the guys to do the dirty work. Ian just so happened to be best at killing people oppose to drug deals or local crime. Carl had just slipped into the family, dealing drugs in the low ranks, too, but that was just predicted.

  Reaching for his phone blindly as he woke up with a pounding head and squinting eyes at the light, Ian opened it to find three texts from Lip. One was telling him about a job he apparently took last night — which, now that his brain pushed harder, Ian did remember accepting a ‘big job’ the night before — and all the details of it, the second a picture of the man he had to take out, and the third: _don’t fuck this up, Ian_. Being a hitman may not have been the dream job Ian had wanted in his early teens and younger years before that, but it was definitely thrilling. He could hardly say he particularly _enjoyed_ it, since killing people didn’t exactly give him joy, but it was great money and he didn’t know the people, therefore it didn’t matter.

  Head still pounding, Ian sent off a text to his brother saying he’d got the message and that he wouldn’t fuck it up. Then, he deserted his phone and heaved from the bed to go and get a shower, hoping the water would wash away his hangover and make him feel cleaner after sleeping in his clothes without the cover. The water was cold, ruining it all, and he hurried to get clean, grumbling as he tied a towel around his waist and returned to his bedroom. His phone flashed with more texts from Lip, but he was busy rooting around the place, scambling for money to pay off the water bill, since there was a downside to his jobs. Firstly, the club money was used for groceries and helping out his family, tips just being a kind bonus if he felt like getting a branded cereal instead of a shitty remake, and the money he gained from being a hitman ... well, he had to split that with Lip, as both his brother and (under)boss, and had to be careful with the money he had leftover, or else people would get suspicious.

  He may not have been living the high life, but Ian had things going well for him. He was being medicated for his bipolar, lived in a semi-decent flat alone, near his family, had a job — even if it was a dirty one — and could provide for himself. He’d managed a couple of friends, though no boyfriend, and wasn’t sure if he’d get one any time in the near future. The whole Mafia thing could get him in trouble if he pissed off the wrong guy. 

  Finding quite a few bills here and there, he pulled one some jeans and a shirt before unplugging his phone and going about his day. This included stumbling into the kitchen with his toothbrush still in his mouth, shoving a couple waffles in the toaster and putting the money he’d found in a pile on the table. Checking the texts from Lip lead him to find further details into his job, since he’d barely processed much before he left his bed, and looking more closely at who and when, he realised he didn’t have a lot of time. The guy had to be dead by tomorrow afternoon, six o’clock, a bullet to the head just outside of an alleyway, so the body could easily be hidden. Ian had no place to question why he had to kill the guy, who looked like he was important judging by the image of him in a suit, shaking hands with another formal-looking woman, smiling politely for the camera in the large room with massive glass windows in the background. The text also clarified that he could be getting thirty-thousand dollars if he did it all correctly, accordingly, and witnesslessly. Shrugging as he spat his toothpaste, knocked his head back with his pills, and tossed the waffles onto a plate, Ian decided that he was good enough. He wasn’t a bad aim at all, and the money was quick an easy. He had the entire plan written down right there for him, too, it was all perfect; all he had to do was be there, do it, and report back to Lip.

 

The day was slow. While Ian had managed an eight mile run, a work out, a beer and three episodes of _Storage Hunters_ , the day still dragged on. All his friends were working their day jobs, his brother spending the day with his newest fuck buddy, and the work he had to do was done. He had a shift starting at nine, ending at three, though the clock only read one when he looked at it. A downfall to having grown up a Gallagher — trust him, there had been many — was that he was so used to the hectic lifestyle of a busy house, filled to the brim with kids, some of which weren’t even part of the family, that now he lived alone ... things got boring. Sure, a gay dancer and hitman, but Ian’s normal days were so dragged and empty. Most of the time, uneventful and lonely.  He missed the way he used to be able to say he’d had an exhausting day, from when he’d skip school to go steal some shit with Lip and then bolt, then attend back at school to discuss Carl’s behaviour because Frank was too drunk under the L (where he’d later have to go and find him), smoke some weed in his bedroom, go shoot at a target under the L, after shooing Frank away, then returning home and starting a fight with Lip, helping Debbie with her boy problems, cook with Fiona, put Liam to bed—

 Now, an eventful day meant being at a place at a time, shooting someone within two seconds and getting money before a shift. That was it. It may seem fun to some, such a scandalous, illegal lifestyle, but Ian was sick of it. It was so normal, in its own bland way. Routine. Stable.

  Beginning to feel the buzz after a beer, which was a stupid thing to have done since he was hungover to begin with, Ian clicked off the TV, got up and went to his bedroom, opening the wardrobe that he had his weapons in there. The text hadn’t clarified what gun to use, as long as it was a gun, and that left a lot up to him. He figured that it should be long range, considering the area was high-buildings and important people, though not a machine gun of any kind. One bullet, that’s all he wanted and needed to use. Biting down on his lip, he reached for the AR-50, lifting it and looking it over. It was a possibility, he decided, as he searched more into the wardrobe for an ACOG sight , attaching it and looking through the scope. He steadied the gun in his hands, despite it being unloaded, as if he were going to shoot and stabled it so it remained still on one point — the lamp on his bedside table. It’d do, he thought as he placed it back, upright and ready to go tomorrow. Jesus, he really did have nothing to do if he was planning his weapon like a god damn outfit. 

  A while back, Lip would have never let him do this. Live alone, weapons in a cupboard like fucking groceries, beers in the fridge. Lip may have been cool, laid back and — most of all — an asshole, but he did care about Ian. After the hell he’d gone through with Monica growing up, it was a punch in the gut for Lip to know his brother and best friend could go as batshit crazy as her, maybe even walk out on their family. That big ass family that they’d grown into as siblings, basically parentless. Lip never showed it, yet either way, Ian knew that he was glad the redhead had been persuaded in the end to be medicated and better than Monica. Because that was his life for a long time after being diagnosed: being compared to Monica. 

  He’d tell his family again and again that he was _not_ Monica; didn’t need to be treated like her. How was it his fault if he landed with her awful genetics? It wasn’t _him_ who had six kids, each on a different drug, and then walk out on them all to only come back like she was a saint. After many fights, many manic episodes, and a lot of convincing, they all learnt that Ian was not her. He wasn’t going to ditch his family like she had, he wasn’t going to take drugs when he was depressed like her, he wasn’t going to try and kill himself on fucking Thanksgiving like her. No matter what, Ian was still family — unlike her. Monica didn’t deserve that title.

  How choosing a gun for an assassination tomorrow lead him down the deep, black hole that was thinking about Monica: Ian had no idea. He tried not to, at best, since she was in a psych ward now, deemed too dangerous to be around regular humanity. It was frightening to know that Ian could have easily landed there, too, if he hadn’t pulled through. Sometimes, that was the only motivation he had to take those damned pills every day. The only thing Ian wasn’t doing to help medicate his disorder was go to the therapist because _god dammit_ , he was not Monica! The subject of his mother was sensitive and initiated his bad mood; which, by the way, fucking sucked since while the day was long, it hadn’t been bad. Fucking hell.

 

The clock hit midnight, club music pounding a shitty beat through loud speakers and heavy bass. Lights filled the club, flashing and spinning and blinding.

  Red. Green. Blue.


	3. see how dirty i can get them

Red. Green. Blue.

  Never in Mickey’s life had he thought he’d be willingly in a gay club. Granted, it was for work purposes, though the point still stood that he was sat at the bar with a shot of whiskey and a pint of beer in front of him, all around him flashing lights and queers grinding up on each other.

  On one hand, he should feel vulnerable in this environment. Surrounded by people who knew the one thing he had kept secret in his entire life. People who may have even known of the Milkovich name, could have easily given Terry the heads-up that, hey, his son was into guys. That would be disastrous, if only he were still in Chicago, and his father would have damn well killed him if he knew that Mickey was into guys. However, this was not Chicago. Nobody knew him, or the Milkovich name, and even if he _was_ sat at this bar in this gay club, Mickey still refused to admit to himself that he liked men. 

  Comical, it could almost be. For someone with hair as black as night and tattooed knuckles to imply his time served before he was even of age, someone who had left the Southside of Chicago and murdered people for a living, Mickey should at the very least be comfortable enough to be gay. Wasn’t the whole reason he was closeted the environment he was in? Apparently not. None of this mattered, though, since his mind was just wandering due to boredom.

  The club was just about pulsing from the loud music, still managing to be dark even with the lights, and the people within it. Orientation aside, they were all full of energy, dancing as though the world outside was timeless and would wait for them. In some ways, it would. The thrill of life was something they ran high on, admirably, as they found new faces with every small move of their body, new people to store to memory or get to know. People to fuck for just one night, or form a relationship with, get their heart broken or marry them. Life, Mickey realised when he and Mandy and first left Chicago, was a tree. And, no, that wasn’t some fucking gayass metaphor, it was just common knowledge, fuck you very much. Life was so simple, a sapling, until it branched off into all kinds of different, crazy things; into relations, thoughts, feelings, ambitions, experiences, each holding a different branch and leaf to hold its memories.

  Unfortunately, Mickey’s life may not have been running on the high that these people’s were. While they saw faces and forgot them, Mickey saw faces and killed them. For money, which he could not decide if it was better or worse. Being an assassin, though, was the job for him — it played up into his skillsets, had no attachments, good money, and no law. Mickey liked to think he was not a murderer, just hired help, if you wanted to sugarcoat it, and he was far from a psychopath. He didn’t get weird, massive kicks from taking lives away: in fact, it hardly meant anything to him. The people were strangers, and he was just doing the work that somebody else would have done if it weren’t for him. He still had empathy, deep down, and love. No love for a man, definitely not a woman, romantically, but love nonetheless. Love for Mandy, if nobody else.

  Red. Green. Blue.

  The sounds were beginning to make the brunet’s head ache, the alcohol refusing to help that, though giving him a slight relief from the tense feeling he got from being in this place. Within these walls, as dirty and dark they may be, was another killer. Mickey knew this; of course he did, why else would he be here?

  After staying up last night, Mickey thought about the twenty million dollars he could pocket if he got his job done. Besides, there was no telling when Jones would be targeted, so it was better to do his work quickly, as asked of him, and have the money before it started losing zero’s for being slow. The information he had been given on the hitman was scarce, close to nothing beyond basic, proving Mickey’s theory that he was good. If he could hardly be tracked, he was immediately more dangerous. Clearly not just a rookie sent out to do a job, and if he died or got caught — so what? No, Ian Gallagher, from what Mickey had read, was an outstanding hitman.

  The only thing not-so outstanding was his ability to keep a false identity. Since they had his name, it was easy to find out his occupation, which was funny to begin with until it was actually kind of sad. Ian was a dancer at this club. Outside the Mafia, this was what he did. It was depressing, in a weird, fucked up way, that Ian was in an endless loop between criminal and whore. It was not depressing to Mickey, though, who could not give less of a fuck as to how many problems this guy had outside of the Mafia. All he had to do was kill him, which may prove difficult. Aside from that, anything more personal than the plot to kill him was something Mickey cared not for. To Mickey, Ian Gallagher was just another kill.

  Red. Green. Blue.

  Now, all he had to do was find the hitman. The club was busy, surprisingly to begin with, until it occured to Mickey that he had little idea of how accepted being homosexual was here. He had never been to a gay club, for all he knew — they were all this busy. Either way, he _did_ know that he was fucking sick of thinking about it. He hadn’t had much of a plan for tonight to begin with, besides hunting down Gallagher. The thug had not decided on whether he’d actually kill him tonight, or just stalk him a little to gather more secure information to make the death smoother and less easy to track when it did happen. It wouldn’t be the first time Mickey had followed one of his targets for a short while just be absolutely positive that he wouldn’t be caught, as never being seen didn’t just _happen_. He had to put effort into it somehow, especially with the more important people. Jones was a businessman, and if Mickey slipped up and someone found out he was tied up in the murder? Shit, that could only go sour. 

  Jean-clad legs slipped off of the barstood, steadying the person in control of them. Smart as he was, this entire situation was new and bizarre — a professional killer and gay club dancer, said gay club of which Mickey had no idea how to navigate, and a tinge of alcohol to obscure his brain slightly. The Milkovich was at a loss of where to start. He could consider finding a manager, asking for ‘Ian Gallagher’ then and there, but even tipsy he knew that was dumb since that’d mean Gallagher was bound to find out about him, plus he was probably known by a different, gayer name here. Something more dazzling, appleasing to say, something to draw these old queens in with their cash to burn. Not that the information helped any, it was just something that slipped into Mickey’s drunker-than-he-thought-he-was mind.

  Dancers. That was what he was looking for. It’d help if he knew more specifically what he was looking for, beside ‘dancer’. All he knew was that this guy was meant to have green eyes, and what fucking use was that in a dim club? If he looked on the bright side (which he didn’t), he could at least say that there were a smaller group of professional dancers than there were ordinary people at this club. Be that as it may, but Mickey did not look on the bright side — hadn’t really ever looked on the bright side in all his years, since any hope, any good thing his brain could trick him into believing could become reality, had been crushed. Maybe some people would say that it was all Terry; the father who had ruined the children, beat the hopes and dreams out of them, yet even if he hated the man with all his guts, Mickey wouldn’t blame his pessimism on Terry. In the Southside, there had been no kind of optimism, no bright outlook on the situation these poor families were in, no jobs outside of shooting guns, dealing drugs, or pathetic ones that Juvie provided. Nothing that would be ideal for a human being to live their life doing. While things had gotten better, Mickey had stuck to his roots, like he had always promised, was still very much Southside trash that did get a job in killing, after all. It was possible that he still thought he deserved none of the good things he had.

  His mind kept steering away from his task, and he would swear it was these fucking lights that were making his brain all fuckin’ weird. The brunet found himself looking at dancer after dancer, one by one stopping and staring, though never finding one that caught his attention. Gallagher could be any one of these people, though Mickey was smart. Smarter than most people thought. He knew a killer when he saw one — it was in their eyes. While he had little chance of seeing the color of those eyes, he’d always be able to somehow tell from aura and the way someone held themselves. Being a killer himself helped, he simply searched for people that weren’t innocent, even if they had that façade. He was good at seeing through façades, having held up many himself.

  Red. Green. Blue.

  White, pale skin seemed to glow in this place, lights bouncing off it as the dancer moved. Ginger hair was dark, still unmistakably orange, slicked back, long eyelashes casting shadows over perfectly chiselled cheekbones, eyes closed as his body moved. Adrenaline coursed through those blue veins, powering the tall being’s every thrust and twist and movement. Honestly, this dancer did not move to the music. The music seemed to follow his movements, instead, each singular beat crafted specifically for his body to sway to.

  Though his actions were hard, they held a grace to them. A grace that said that this was effortless, that he didn’t have to be focused on each small turn of his body for it to look natural, to probably _feel_ natural. Even if he seemed made for the platform he was on, small crowd around it with their money in hand, Mickey knew instantly that he was so far away from this club right now. His eyebrows were scrunched together, as if trying to root himself or else thinking something harsh, and his body moved with such a way (beautiful, maybe so) that said he was not here. Instead, he was floating. Thinking.

  The bastards around him; those old, closeted men cheating on their wives, the younger guys who seemed just as new as Mickey, nervously jittering about the club, seemingly embarrassed, the more confident ones who clearly thought they were higher than the redhead and deserved whatever they wanted, they all were too stupid to know that this man was worlds away. Blinded by lust over his sculpted body, the way it moved, they had little clue of what Mickey did, too caught up in themselves. Why Mickey knew all this from just looking at the man? He understood it. To be doing something, but to not really be there.

  Hell, most of his life had been like that. When he was running those jobs for his father, he was thinking about the one less beating he’d take. When he was cooking food for Mandy at age seven, since nobody else would, he was thinking about his mom and how much better life could’ve been if she were still around. When he was leaving Chicago at last, he was thinking about what he should do now, jobless and having used the last of the money he had had. Mickey’s mind was always elsewhere, even just slightly, holding his full attention proved to be difficult: and he was the reason why. He could give things his whole attention (his kills, for example), though often let himself focus on multiple things. Especially with people, since showing them that he cared enough to listen intently was too personal, they could already see too much of _him_. Him being Mickey Milkovich, not the assassin asshole, who killed for money and cared for nothing.

  Red. Green. Blue.

  Red hair. Green eyes locking with blue ones. The brunet had been staring for too long, too thoughtfully to be just another horny guy escaping for the night. Even in the shitty atmosphere, his eyes were stunning and filled with more emotion than any of his outward look portrayed. He was on the shorter side, leaning against something with his arms crossed, tattooed knuckles bearing a threat and being obvious that he wanted no attention on him. Had he been anyone else, he would be so very unnoticable, wearing dark colors, blending into the background since he wasn’t pushing through the small crowd around the platform. Those eyes caught Ian, though. Blue. So fucking blue. Caught Ian enough, that after a solid five minutes of dancing with those eyes locked on him with no movement or attempt to approach at all, Ian decided he needed to know more. Because that was Ian Gallagher: too god damn curious.

  His feet hit the floor, pushing away from the platform and grabbing a bottle of water from the corner and downing it, eyes still trained on the shorter man who had been staring. He tossed it, and decided, _fuck it_. It wasn’t until he got close did he realise how truly attractive this guy was. Wasn’t some pervert or arrogant motherfucker, he seemed very casual. Very ... real, compared to everyone else. Less like an illusion and more like a reality.

  “Can I fuckin’ help you?”

  Yes, Mickey had been in an absolute trace with the male dancer, the way he moved and how different he seemed. That didn’t suddenly mean he was head over heels, falling at his knees for someone who was just a little different. The guy was hot, what the fuck ever. Either way, the way Mickey spoke so aggressively without moving an inch seemed to startle the taller boy, who blinked before stepping closer, biting his lip in that slightly seductive way he probably pulled on everybody. Mickey was not ‘everybody’, therefore didn’t care and wouldn’t fall for it. 

  “Noticed you’d been starin’. Thought you may have wanted a bit more than a look.”

  “Thought wrong, then.”

  “Yeah? Didn’t seem like it.”

  “Whatever. You got people nearly queuing up for you, wouldn’t wanna disappoint them wasting time on me. Ain’t into redheads.”

  It kind of wounded Ian’s pride to hear. He wasn’t some guy who thought he was the world’s eight wonder, or anything like that, but to hear from someone who had been giving him the impression they were into him to say that they weren’t, and that he had thirsty guys at his feet like he was some fucking slut that just boned anyone who was down, kind of just hit Ian. This guy, with the few words they had shared, was more real than anyone Ian had met in a while. Not that he was suddenly thinking of something long-term with a total stranger ... just that it’d be nice to spend one night with someone who didn’t fake themself, didn’t try to shower him to keep him around like the mistress, who didn’t pretend he was more than a dancer at a club. It all contradicted itself.

  “What if I don’t want them?”

  Sighing, the brunet turned more properly towards Ian. “Jesus, you like this with everyone here? Hate to break it to ya, but if this is your job, you don’t get the chance to be fuckin’ picky.”

  This whole thing ... working at the club ... it was a fantasy to others. From the day he arrived, that’s what Ian had been told. That he was not ‘Ian Gallagher’, but whatever and whoever the customers wanted him to be. He was here to go to who paid him, exactly as this guy was saying. He knew it all, it was just fact, nothing new. It was all just a little odd to find someone here who wasn’t interested, since the whole reason people came was to find a little fun, to live that fantasy that they weren’t cheating, or hiding themself, or literally paying someone else to be into them. 

  “Well, if you aren’t here to fuck, what are you here for?”

  “Never said I wasn’t here to fuck, just because I don’t wanna fuck you, man. Besides, I ain’t even gay.”

  There it was. The inevitable denial that blew Mickey’s whole cover up, because now he proved he literally had no purpose in being here. He couldn’t say he was looking for a hitman in the Mafia so he could assassinate him, now, could he? His eyebrow lifted as the dancer snorted a laugh, eyes widening in a way that threatened him to insinuate he was gay again.

  “Right,” he said, smirk still smug on his lips that made the brunet wanna punch him there and then. “So why _are_ you here?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Ian shrugged. “I’m a curious guy.”

  “Well, Mr Curiosity, you ain’t got the right to ask me shit. Go interrogate one of those guys,” he gestured to the crowd around another platform.

  “They all want the same shit from me. You don’t. So I wanna know.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Alright, alright. At least tell me your name.”

  An eyeroll. “Mickey.”

  “I’m Curtis.”


	4. pulling out their fragile teeth

The skies had darkened with rainclouds overnight, thunder booming from above to forewarn the downpour that hit. Water splashed down in heavy drops, falling to the earth at whizzing speeds only to splat against concrete, causing a miserable kind of gloom over the city. The coolness was refreshing, though, even if blue eyes caught the sight of many umbrellas being put up on the streets below. 

  This balcony was somewhere Mickey spent a lot of his time. Since the neighbors complained about the smell of smoke inside, most of Mickey’s cigarettes were taken out onto the balcony before he could get them kicked out of their apartment for _smoking_ , of all things. Since, the brunet had quite a liking towards the calmness of the ledge, often finding himself simply staring down at the rest of the world when he had nothing else to be doing. It was also a great place to reside to when Mandy brought a guy home with no intent on being quiet about what they were up to.

  The Milkovich boy sniffed, eyebrows furrowing as his mind competed against itself. Last night’s happenings aside, he was amazing at his job, he would not lie. He had been raised with his pride in his ability to kill, beat up, or threaten anything. However, he had never stuggled so much with a job. Never had Mickey been put up against another professional killer in his assassination business, so it was getting to be really fucking hard to work out what to do. At the club, he had found nobody to the name of Ian Gallagher. The annoyingly persistent Curtis, yes, but no Gallagher. That night had been wasted, too much money spent on drinks that didn’t even get him that drunk, no clue towards anything for his job (which, by the way, he had no idea on when Gallagher would strike, putting him on constant edge), and too many people knowing his secret. 

  Deep down, Mickey knew nobody cared. They were too drunk, too preoccupied, or else just used to being surrounded by other gay men. On the surface though, Mickey was nervous, even if he refused to admit so. He had spent far too much time growing up, hiding away while he jacked off to built bodies, scratchy stubbles and fucking _dicks_ ; plastering his walls with posters of naked women, trying to be like his brothers, who had no shame in their love of girls; too much of his _life_ being in the closet and trying to be convincing to suddenly be in a gay club, where people knew he was gay when he didn’t like to accept it, where they were all open about that fact. It was too much last night. 

  At the same time, he had gained an odd liking towards the time he had spent. After the redhead he met flirted, he went back to dancing, only this time aiming every move towards Mickey, who for some unknown reason still leaned against that railing and watched his body move. The brunet knew that it was just his head being dirty, enjoying the fuck out of a hot guy being into him when he’d never really had the oppotunity to have this, but god damn he was pleased by the early hours. Sure, Curtis — which he had called out to be a bullshit name, to only recieve a grin — and he hadn’t actually done anything, though Mickey could consider it a step for himself to at least not punch somebody for flirting with him. Besides, the kid’s face was far too pretty for that. 

  It hadn’t crossed his mind when he was watching the dancer that he was here to find a hitman. As he stood on the balcony now, he cursed his stupid liking for gingers that distracted him from his work. Nothing. He had absolutely _nothing_  on Ian Gallagher, hitman for the Mafia who could kill Jones whenever he pleased. Where would he find him? When? How? It was a lot of questions with zero answers, and it was frustrating Mickey to no end.

  “Ay, you alright?”

  Long hair tied back, Mandy stood beside her brother, surprised to see him awake so early without her own prompting. They’d been together for life, it was easy to read that Mickey was stressed. Dark outlines of lack of sleep lined under his blue eyes, forehead creased while he pondered with nothing but dead ends, smoking cigarette after cigarette like it’d relieve him. Normally, it did, so judging by the impressive mini-mountain of stubs Mickey had in the ashtray they kept out here, he was really thinking. 

  “Not really.” It had taken years, even as brother and sister, for Mickey to be able to say that. To be honest about his emotions. “Struggling on this job.”

  “Oh,” the younger nodded, understandably. “Well, rich fuck wouldn’t be offerin’ twenty mil for easy work, would he?”

  “Nah,” a smile traced his lips before settling into a frown. “Didn’t think it’d be this fuckin’ difficult though.”

  Being a job for just Mickey alone meant that Mandy had no right to details. As selfish as it was, too, she had her own problems. She’d help if asked, though she’d always known that Mickey preferred to be left to work his own things out and would only ask when he really needed. “I’m sure you’ve got it.”

  “Thanks, Mands.”

  “Assface,” she giggled, punching his arm before taking off through the door, brother hot on her heels with a laugh, and a shout of ‘you’re on, bitch!’

 

Five-thirty. The rain was still pouring, hard and heavy, causing the navy blue hoodie the hitman wore to stick uncomfortably to his skin. The hood he had pulled up did nothing to help his hair, which lay flattening, dark orange, and the eyeliner he had forgotten to take off to run slightly. He had no feeling in his knees, which were kneeling against the stone, soaked and cold to the point of numbing, and his hands were paler than usual. He’d mastered keeping them from shaking years ago. A gun lay against the small wall around the roof of this building, waiting for the clock to hit six before it’d release the singular bullet stored in Gallagher’s pocket.

  The day had been unproductive, as usual. After his shift, Ian had gone back home and watched shitty TV, enjoyed the warm water he had from paying his bill in the form of a long shower, and napped with the downpour outside. It would seem the boring day had been a build up for this. Wrong, Ian thought. This was just his form of making more money, nothing that really gave him a thrill. It’d be more fun if he had the slightest chance of being caught, maybe even a chase if he was lucky — but, alas, as always, it was shoot, get out, get paid.

  Five-forty-five.

  Through the rain, as heavy as it was, Ian could see his target in his big, glass-windowed office. He was pacing, eyes wide while he was on the phone, mouth moving quickly, other hand making fast gestures in his obvious building panic. His eyes were shifting uncomfortably around, despite having nobody there. Huh. Whatever was up with him would be over soon, anyway. Still as stone, Ian could only watch, noticing a familar person leave the office all the way down, nodding to him before going back to walking like they hadn’t acknowledged him at all. They walked between the building and the next one, down an alleyway. Ian wasn’t bothered, it was only another soldier, there to pull in the dead body so Ian could leave via rooftops.

  Things began moving from there. The man put down the phone, looking calmer though still nervous, before taking his merry time in neatening papers, clicking away on the computer and shoving some stuff in a briefcase. After slowly pulling on a large coat, he began to leave. Locking the door to his office, and making his way down the stairs. Some curtains were drawn, so Ian didn’t have a full view of him all the way down, though enough to know the timings would be perfect. He would be just outside of that alley by six, spot on.

  Ian picked up his gun, loaded it and cocked it. He focused his aim to the alleyway, at the exact height the man’s head would be  

  The man left the building, and time seemed to slow down.

  Five-fifty-eight.

  He stalled, for some reason, looking up and down the road, then greeted someone who was leaving the building. Ian glanced away from the scope to look at what the fuck he was doing, then nervously to his watch. Shit.

  Five-fifty-nine.

  After a conversation with his coworker, the man continued. Ian looked through the scope once more, breathing in slowly and holding it. One bullet. One minute. One shot. He could only shoot when his watch beeped, he knew this, though the usual anxiety kicked in. What if his watch failed? What if the man decided to cross the street? What if—

  “You plan on shooting that thing?”

  Six.

  With a jump, the gun shot, bullet rifling through the air as Ian’s watch beeped once, twice. He span around, noticing the source of the voice, and then looked back to see that his target was running down the street quickly, missed by the bullet. 

  Suddenly, strong arms were on him, holding his back to their chest, the gun held to his chest with struggle as he fought against their strength. He and whoever grappled for strength before something cool was pressed just over his throat, forcing him to stop. An inch more, and the knife could lodge into his throat, the sharp edge already grazing the skin, pale white peeling a little for drops of crimson red.

  Hot breath hit his neck, even if the person was shorter, harsh against the bitter cold rain. “This what you do when you’re not whorin’ yourself out, _Gallagher_?”

  Heavy breaths were heaving from Ian’s chest, pressing himself hard back against the other male, straining to keep his throat as far from the knife as possible. Normally, he would forget about the club entirely, who was in it, what he did. This voice, though, had stuck. The hands holding him were tattooed familiarly. The smaller body and stock being he was pressed up against, in an entirely different way than he wanted the night prior, was idential to the one he had checked out. “You,” he declared, voice coming out a strained breath, trying to keep his throat from moving. “Who the fuck are you?” As threatening as he tried, it all sounded weak. He was stuck, own gun pressed against his chest, knife on his throat and pressing ever so gently. He hissed as a small line of blood trickled down the cold metal. 

  “You don’t remember me, huh?” hummed the other male’s voice. The knife pressed harder. “Let me make this simple, eh? That dude you had a gun on, yeah? Well, he’s payin’ a lot of fuckin’ money to me to kill you. In fact, called me just before. Said a redhead had an eye on him. Had a gun.”

  “So?” spat the redhead in question, unable to help himself.

  “ _So_ ,” Mickey emphasised, his end of the knife beginning to spinter his hand with the strength and aggression he was holding it to. Gallagher was near shaking in his hold, “you nearly just lost me a nice wad of cash right there. Give me one reason to not push this knife clean through your fuckin’ throat right now.”

  The rain was pouring. Hitting them both, though the cold was only forcing them warmer, doing nothing to help the sweat beading on Ian’s forehead. When he joined the Mafia, he was not promised safety. Though he was told he’d never be stuck in a situation such as this, and where the fuck was the guy in the alley now? He should have known. Should be here, helping Ian. The knife was cold, therefore seemed so much sharper, pressed so close that Ian couldn’t even swallow to help his try throat without it cutting his windpipe. His head was tipped, eyes open, emotionless, mouth a thin line and skin seeming grey.

  He could hear his heart in his ears, thrumming hard and steady. Could taste the vile in his mouth, the warmth and sting on his neck, burning pain, seconds almost audible as he counted how long he had left. One thought. He had one chance of getting out, and with one breath, he whispered, “Mandy.”

  Just as he had hoped with every atom in his being, the arms holding him tensed but relaxed, surprised and allowing him enough space, as the cold voice said, “the fuck did you say?”

  Weakness. He had found the weakness, and used it unfairly, for his own damned life. Unfair or not, this was live or die, and they didn’t have _time_. That shot hadn’t hit the target, either way Ian should be gone before police turned up. Everything was passing hazily, in an illusion, though so focused it hurt. Hypersensitivity filled every sense Ian had, as he twisted, gun clattering to stone among the pouring rain, dropping a punch right to a sharp jaw, knocking back other man. 

  Pale hands grabbed the guy’s hair, short as it was, pulling him forward to headbutt him hard and shove him away with a hard snap as his nose was hopefully out of place. Ian was quick, spinning to grab the gun while the other was down so he could run, though as soon as his back turned, he was being jumped and tackled. Short legs held heavy either side of him as he was forced down, punch delivered to his head and then a hand held on his throat, blood dripping onto tattooed knuckles as Ian struggled for air. His own hand reached up and held the guy’s wrist, who had the knife held high and ready to plunge, blue eyes filled with a fighting rage.

  “The fuck did you get her name?” the plunge of the knife didn’t come, only the grunts and gasps of strength on strength, clashing like the two sharp edges of swords. His voice was a growl, protective and nose flared in an anger Ian had never seen on any man. He coughed, throat contracting around the hand, feeling the blood seep from the top of his head and his throat alike. “I said where the fuck did you get her name!”

  Mandy. Nobody could hurt Mandy, by Mickey’s rule for as long as he lived. Terry had hurt her, and those guys at school, and he swore he’d ruin anyone else who did. Now this hitman, this stupid fucking redhead who had made him believe his own failure the night before, had the courage to speak Mandy’s name as the reason he should live? He didn’t deserve her name on his tongue, he didn’t deserve to know who she was. He was in the Mafia, he could get her killed! His hand pressed harder at the thought, pulling away at the gasp he got, to hear the excuse the guy had that would only fuel the power in Mickey to kill him.

  “She’s my friend,” he spluttered, air forcing into his lungs as he heaved and coughed. Mickey’s eyes no longer held that swirling, wondering look, instead were solid as rock, angry and ready to slaughter. “I’ve known her for years, I fucking — I fucking _swear_.”

  “So you use her to save your sorry ass!” Red was all the other male could see. While it seemed petty to an outsider, Mandy was such a sensitive topic. He loved her with everything he had, couldn’t risk to see her hurt. And now this guy was saying her name.

  “Fuck — please. I _know_ her. S-she means something to me, we’re friends!”

  Saying he knew her. He didn’t know shit! He didn’t know that Mandy had been through hell and Mickey had moved them away only to find a hitman who knew her name. He didn’t know that Mickey could easily plunge this knife into his eyes and gauge them out because anybody could say things about him, but no fucking way on earth could they bring her into it. 

  “You don’t know fuck all about her!” the knife clattered right next to gun, and time went by in a dizzy whir as Ian felt punch after punch until his face throbbed in pain. Between punches, he could hear Mickey, saying he should kill him, and that he had no fucking right to be saying her name to stop his own death. The pain was non-stop, the way this guy’s fists moved with every hit, each harder than the last, was never-ending. Until sirens were heard, and his punching continued until it stopped, his face contorted to one of great restraint. “Fuck,” he looked down at the mess he had caused, all the blood spilt, leaving Gallagher almost unrecognisable underneath it, eyes unfocused as he was slipping out of consciousness. In a panic, all he could do was grab the weapons, do a double take, throw the unconscious body over his shoulder, and _run_. 

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is one of my ‘hey it’s three am and this sounds like a good idea rn’ ideas& contains A LOT of violence, death (of non-major characters) and assassination things that i’m probably getting wrong. hey, this is my first chaptered fic on this site! yay


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